Whirlwind
by Trialia
Summary: He's barely stopped touching her all day. RoslinAdama, spoilers for Maelstrom.


-1Title: Whirlwind

Author: Trialia

Fandom: Battlestar Galactica (2003)

Rating: M

Word Count: 1908

Beta: Cincoflex

Character(s)/Pairing(s): Laura Roslin/Bill Adama

Spoilers: Maelstrom

Summary: MMOM day 19: He's barely stopped touching her all day.

A/N: Inspired by a picture from Maelstrom and discussion at LJ, therefore dedicated to those who provided the inspiration in question: starbuck92, murphy987, stilettofreek, franglaisy, redoren and wickedg.

xxx

He's been watching her all day, on the sly, saying nothing out of the ordinary, business as usual. His expression is difficult to read.

She still has good peripheral vision, or she might not have noticed his eyes on her; it makes her wonder what he's thinking, worry about the rumours should they get caught sneaking glances. It also makes her body heat in a way she hasn't felt in months, since before she helped celebrate the naming of the blackbird they'd called _Laura_. She's hard-pressed to hide it, today; it's been a long week and all she wants is to relax.

As they walk down the halls talking, his hand is on the small of her back. It's only after a few hours of that almost-constant contact that she realises he's barely stopped touching her all day.

It's a gentlemanly touch, and comforting; she thinks for both of them. Not only that, it's a possessive gesture she hopes nobody else has noticed; if that, she hopes that they don't care.

He turns toward a weary-looking Starbuck as they pass the girl in the halls, and she turns with him; in that movement, the side of his hand slides over her hip. His fingers are slightly spread, the edge of his thumb stroking the underside of her elbow: soft, slow, warm, and causing a whole-body shiver she struggles to mask.

She takes a few seconds to respond to Starbuck's presence, and is glad it isn't noticeable.

Kara's offering is beautiful, and her few words match it well. Admiral Adama holds it up for Laura to see, and she hopes, for a moment, that the young pilot can find peace without destruction; a fresh start for her, too.

It's only when Bill's palm slides back to its former position with an aching slowness as they walk on that she realises _he _noticed her pause. Her heartbeat speeds up and, as his fingers lightly press against her suit, every short hair on her body stands up, as do other things: she's suddenly very, very glad for the long-sleeved suit jacket that she's wearing.

She tries to push away the vision that's there, come so easily to her mind: Bill stripping her, ever so carefully, out of that suit; his rough, warm palms smoothing up the front of her thighs and under her skirt to push it up around her waist as he presses her back against the bulkhead right there, sliding his fingers beneath her underwear and teasing until she...

She fails; she can feel her face flushing, despite her efforts to stop it, and in the corner of her eye she can see him with the tiniest trace of a smirk on his face.

_He knows. I wonder how _much _he knows?_

When they finally reach his quarters, she hesitates for a very brief moment before following him inside and dismissing her guard.

The significance of that is not lost on him. She's slow to lock the hatch, weighing all the political and personal implications of what they may be about to do against the slow pulse of desire kindling in her body, the matching ache in her heart and the knowledge of how long she's wanted him.

He's right there, when she turns back to the room: so close she imagines she can feel the heat from his skin. She can certainly feel the heat in his gaze as his blue eyes fix on her lips. He's unfastened his jacket, and stands there with it hanging open, just looking at her, for a long moment.

_Where did this come from?_ she wonders, abstractly. A strange coincidence that they should both be this worked up today... _Unless of course he planned it that way._

She exhales on a long sigh of want, letting all her barriers down. Lips slightly parted and green eyes shimmering, she is utterly irresistible to him, and he claims her mouth without a word, forcing a groan from her throat as his mouth presses with near-bruising force against hers.

This kiss is not gentle; it is not in the least bit uncertain.

When it breaks, his lips run a trail along her jawline and downward, his warm breath against the hollow of her throat, his hand pushing her hair back for greater access to her neck; her eyes roll back in her head at the surge of pleasure, lids fluttering closed.

"Gods, I want this," she breathes without even realising she's spoken until his warmth leaves her throat; his body is still close up against hers, and she notices, finally, that her back is against the bulkhead.

"So do I," Bill tells her, a wry smile lighting his mouth, his look a caress to her skin that

she can almost feel, a phantom repeat of what he's just been doing to her.

She returns his smile a little unsteadily, leaning forward and sliding her hands beneath his uniform jacket to push it off his shoulders. She finds the motion difficult to stop, knees weakened by arousal, and she continues, dropping her head to rest her cheek against his chest through his tanks and inhaling, deeply, his scent, her hands moving to untuck them from his pants and one, just briefly, brushing lower to feel his hardness with the slightest touch; it's not as if she doesn't know he wants her as much as she wants him, right at this moment.

He groans when she makes contact, and tangles one hand roughly in her hair, pulling her head back a little before kissing her again. She moans into his mouth, and breaks away gasping, her eyes wild and her hands fumbling to shove her suit coat off and unbutton her blouse.

This isn't the way she'd imagined it happening, most of the times that she's daydreamed about sleeping with him; she'd thought of a quiet evening together with ambrosia, falling into bed with him, a confession in itself; thought of him making love to her, languid and urgent and beautiful.

She hadn't thought of this. It's perfect.

_Frak slow._

While her mind has been elsewhere, he's down to his boxers and, coming back to herself with her shirt hanging off one shoulder, she admires the sight. He's in good shape for sixty-six; she should have known, she reflects, considering how often she's heard he goes to the gym. It's delicious to see it; she follows the lines of his torso and legs with her look, licking her lips, and he makes a sound that's nearly a growl.

"You're wearing too much," he says gruffly, proceeding to rectify that fact. His hands on her are almost too much; she bites off a moan when he touches her with a slow, sexy slide of his fingers over the swell of her breasts, and he smiles.

She loves his smile: it's so rare; she barely registers it now, head tilted back against the bulkhead and body arching into his touch as he reaches to remove her bra, stroking the dip of her spine as he slides the clasp open. She shrugs it and the last sleeve of the shirt away as quickly as she can, gasping as he lowers his head to kiss his way up her, his hands busy at the back of her skirt. She can't help but drown in the moment, lost in the deafening pounding of blood through her veins, the sensation of his stubble against her soft skin, and the warm, damp feel of his mouth as he flicks his tongue over her nipple, sending a jolt of tension through her nerves that makes her cry out in reaction.

She feels her skirt fall to the ground around her ankles, and she opens her eyes to kick it out of the way, along with her shoes. He breathes her name against her skin, straightening against her to look into her face; one hand slides down to hook a finger under the waistband of her plain black cotton panties.

"I want these off," he says. No apologies in the gaze he directs toward her, and she's glad of it: nothing but longing, passion and desire, with perhaps a touch of love, if she isn't dreaming, and she's not entirely certain that she's not. The tone of his voice goes right through her, and she complies with his request without argument. She takes her time about sliding them down her legs, teasing him.

"Your turn," she responds, looking up at him from a half-crouching position as she steps out of her panties, before mimicking his previous action, gently scraping the skin of his hip with a fingernail, making him shudder in pleasure. On the spur of the moment she decides to take action herself, and pulls the elastic of his boxers out from his stomach, being deliberately careful in the way she slides them down so as not to touch him. The smile she gives him is the smirk of a woman with a kiss behind her lips; his breathing is suddenly as heavy as hers has been for the last few minutes. She rakes her nails lightly through the wiry hair of his thighs as she stands up, and she can feel the tension in the long muscles there, her eyes following what she's revealed.

She doesn't get more than halfway to being on her feet before he's pressing her back against the wall from where she's moved, kissing her fiercely. She tugs his lower lip roughly between her teeth and he responds with an unintelligible mutter of something; it could be her name, but she's not sure, and doesn't care as he cups the mound of her pussy with his palm, grinding himself tightly against her hip as he presses two fingers up inside her, thumb circling the bud of nerves above with unerring accuracy. Laura's lips break from his then as her head falls back and she moans.

"Oh, gods..."

It's too much; she can only hear his breath, her own and the sound of her pulse in her ears. Nothing else matters; she's digging her fingernails into his upper arms, too hard, she knows, but he doesn't seem to care; one of his hands is between her legs as the other supports her back, holding her off the cold metal just a little, while his lips and teeth and tongue play the lines of her neck like an instrument. She's burning up--

A hammering on the hatch and a call of his title startles them both from their joint reverie of lust. Bill curses, pulling his hands from her body and giving her a brief glance of apology before yelling through the closed door, "Report!"

He grabs his clothes, dressing as quickly as he can and gesturing to her to do the same.

"I'm sorry," he mutters. She watches him, after looking around and finding nothing with which to wipe his fingers, jam them in his mouth for a few seconds, sucking her flavour from them; she feels a little faint at the thought of his tasting her like this, or in another way, but pulls herself together.

"Lieutenant Thrace has engaged a Cylon Raider, sir," the man at the door speaks loudly until Bill opens it, "but there's nothing on Dradis."

The cold in Laura's gut drowns out her arousal.

Something is wrong; the Admiral, and probably the President, will be needed.

Bill and Laura will have to wait for later.

_-fin_


End file.
